Castles in the Sand
by AthenaTheWise
Summary: Cold coffee isn't a cure. G/C friendship.


I don't own anything even remotely associated with CSI, CBS, Jerry Bruckheimer, or William Petersen. Believe me, if I did, I wouldn't be breaking my back like I do.  
  
This is my first ever CSI fanfic. I barely even watched the show until I suddenly had Thursday nights free, and now that I don't have those nights anymore, I miss the show! (So I have the DVDs coming to me...) If it sucks, feel free to beat me with a wet herring.  
  
Castles in the Sand By AthenaTheWise  
  
Coffee, long cold in the ugly ceramic mug had lost its appeal to Catherine as she flipped through the evidence breakdowns. She was sure she had missed something in the translation, but she wasn't sure what she could have possibly overlooked. The fingerprints had come up in the computer, the epithelials had matched the owner of the fingerprints, he had a motive, no concrete alibi, and he was already sitting in Brass's office, handcuffed and being read his rights.  
  
But why did she feel like she had overlooked something so simple as to explain why a successful doctor had raped and murdered a surgery patient while she was on the operating table?  
  
Maybe she had just forgotten that human nature is as unpredictable as the waters of the tide, washing over children's sandcastles, dragging the sandy remains to a watery grave... Maybe she was beginning to get used to the horrors of her job - maybe she was losing her edge.  
  
She threw the file onto her desk with a cry of exasperation and reached for the coffee mug. 'Las Vegas - wouldn't you just like to be here' stared back at her, a garish message in bright pink against the black mug. She stopped, holding the cup and staring at it for a moment, lost in some kind of time warp where her thoughts raced along faster than her brain could process them. She blinked sluggishly and lifted the mug to her lips, grunting and spitting the cold sludge back into the cup.  
  
"Gross," she muttered, setting it back onto the desk and making a face, licking her lips as though it would help rid them of the taste of cold, stale coffee with two sugars. Or rather, not so much coffee as some kind of slimy sludge from a sci-fi movie that had ingested her coffee and had taken up residence in its place.  
  
Catherine leaned forward and put her head in her hands, massaging her temples with her fingertips and moaned softly at the thought that without a fresh source of caffeine out of a non-Vegas-slogan mug, she wouldn't last the night without getting the mother of all headaches. She glanced up when she heard someone clear their throat in the doorway, the motion of moving her eyeballs in such a direction as straight up making her nauseous. "Got coffee, Gil?" she mumbled as she sat up and gestured at the mug that she so desperately wanted to smash to pieces.  
  
"Greg's brewing a fresh pot," Grissom said, sitting down and smiling. "Having a withdrawl headache?"  
  
"Not really - just wondering why you're here," she said, opening a desk drawer and searching for the advil. "It doesn't have to do with Doctor Rawlings, does it?"  
  
"He's going to jail, if that's what you mean," Grissom said, looking slightly smug.  
  
"He was my neurologist," she confessed.  
  
"What do you need to see a neurologist for?" he asked, sitting forward, slightly worried.  
  
"These damn headaches - turns out they're a remnant of my old coke days," she said with a heavy sigh, leaning back and staring up at the ceiling. "How soon is the coffee going to be ready already?"  
  
"Apparently not soon enough," Grissom said, smiling slightly as he watched her. He never seemed to tire of observing the world around him, even if it was the ugliest picture imaginable that he was seeing. "Want to take lunch now, since it's slow, and go get something to eat?"  
  
"I need coffee," she grumbled.  
  
"And some coffee," he said, smiling.  
  
"Sounds good," Catherine said, stifling a yawn. "Hey, Gil..."  
  
"What?"  
  
"What's the point of studying human nature if it's always changing?" she asked, getting up onto her too-tired feet and stretching out.  
  
"The point is not to observe human nature, per se," Grissom murmured, helping her into her jacket and letting his lips linger near her ear for a moment longer than necessary, his breath warm against the lobe, tickling.  
  
"Then what is the point?" she asked, her lips twisting into a smile.  
  
"I'll let you know when I figure it out," he promised, pulling back and offering his arm.  
  
Finis 


End file.
